a poem about too many people and too much heart.you were myconclusion- the last paragraph and the last thingi got to say. i loved you and itook words frombetween my eyelashes and iput them down foryou, i took you aparta million times in my mind and always put youback together-and i drewyou, soft and silhouettedagainst mywindow, the panefoggy and i thought of youin the darkest of times, because i kept telling myselfthat you were thelight (like you promised). i know that i am justa girl withtoo much heart andtoo weak of ribs; buti was hopingthat you would help the foxeshunt the hounds, just fortonight.
patron saint of liars and fakes.a dark sky andflowers starting to sprout--this is wherewe found him, where i loved him for the first time (but not thelast), and this is where my heart is.he was calm, 17years old but with more decades thanthe godsstitching his lips closed; perpetually silent, but neverstill.and on his arm -that war torn territory-they lied shone in the halfsun, his last wordswritten in the blood of his heart (and some ofmine, too).
the price to pay for breaking a heart.this is a fact: it hurts to bebroken. but what hurts evenmore isbeing one one whodoes thebreaking.to be the personwho stands over the otherand watchthem choke on theirtears and thenhand them their ownheart- rip someone apart and thennot be able toput them back togetheragain.and when you close youreyes, all you can seeare the ribbons coming undonefrom their wrists. you crumble from your owndisgrace.
,i used to part my hair down the middle,but then i stoppedwhen i was twelvebecause innocencewas heavy,or something likethat.besides,we all have to grow up,don't we?
april.here is thetruth: i am just a sad teenage girl withtoo many scars anda healing heart.but here is whatis true: i am learning to findhappinessin the misery-i am internally alone andseemingly petrified (which is aterrible mix, really), buti am finally ableto let myself fall in love. and i may be bad atendings, but i thinki'm beginning to understand that minedoesn't have to beright away.
a.m./p.m.i put my handsin the stars-feathery hair, coldskin and cyanosis fed, i realize that i amnothing. born in neither winteror spring, crying aboutcherry tree spines andthrowing stones, iwas left for thewolves. it is the dawn ofFebruary, and i am so close toseventeen that i cantaste it; i am very nearly choking on age. the sky beckons me most at 11:49 pm, becauseit's hovering between tomorrow and yesterday--that destroys me. i want to burn it to theground, breathethe ashes in like cigarettes ondirty curbs. i am stuck here in a windowless town witha thousand memories stuck between my canines;into the wind, i drop words like deadweights. take me home.
the lives of past loves.i. nabove all else, iwould like to thankyoufor waiting under themulberry tree; i'm sorry i never gotto see youthere.ii. myou- the boy whoate my heart. i'm glad you showed me whatmonsterslook like. iii. jyou made me believethat i actually didhave eyed as brightas the ocean.but you taught methat following yourbrainis not always the rightchoice.iiii. gwith your heartin places you'venever been, you left behindthe only onesthat gave you a placeto love-that red Camaro won'tget you outof your head.iiii. boh, those big gentle-killer eyes- i loved you for wantingto put me backtogether;you loved me for howi cameapart in yourhands. iiiii.i ethe one with his soulcaught in theclouds- don't let these one way streetsbring you down.just promise me that youwill always rememberhow happiness tastedon your tongue.
don't love me until you've seen me bleed.i think thati'm falling in lovewith you.no. no, no no, don't you say that, because you've never seen meat 4 amwith my eyes glazedand my mind a battle field (and my arms paying for the weaponry).you haven't heard mechoke back sobs after midnightbecause god dammit i can't sleep,and the screams in my earsaren't helping matters,and i don't thinkyou will ever see me bre a kand shatter andfall into the greedy gripof a panic attack and then try in vainto claw myself back up. but there is that hot hope in methat tells me that youare different. youcan look pastthe scars and the tearsand the screams and the nightmares. andmaybefor once in my damn lifei'm praying that i'm rightabout someone for once.
.to thestar gazers outon dusty bridges-the ones whocould never seeApollo'schasing grin-keep looking.
the infinity complex.9:42 p.m; i am heresitting on stained whitesheets and choking onan infinitycomplex. in a world full ofpeople, i am stuck feelingempty; there is nothinghuman inside ofme. it is allsloppy stanzas and half-finishednovels for a girl i loved and never got to love. approximately 7.046 lives on thisplanet, and i am left feelinginconsolably lonesome.
no town is worth this blood.i'm tired ofpouring my heartinto a town that willnever be full.the people here are cross eyed, staring at the too-hot sun on their noses and tripping over greedy train tracks; i think we moved hereto get away, but nowwe're stuck here,2.5 hours from the Windy City; fuck, we're stagnant. there isacid in the rain, and i am choking onillusions.
you ate the stars and i ate my heart.this is how i wasdestroyed: ifell in love with a boywith razor sharpteeth and apoet's heart. it's really adreadfullypretty kind of thing.using his borrowedcraft-man'stongue, he took me in like afour a.m cigarette (slowly, andwith loneliness in every one of hisjoints). we both thoughtthat enough smokewould fill in the cracks in ourrib cages; we were bothwrong.he told me that he wouldlike to be aplanet: "all that openspace, all those dyingstars. it would give me room tobreathe".instead of telling him thatthere is no oxygen inouter space, iwatched him feel his lungsimplode. it broke mybones to witness it; but it's really adreadfully pretty thing tosee.
8:15i.silently, with hushingeyes, he watches the atmosphere-he treads it around hishair and his fingers and heart, breaths it in; ii.when he is done dancingwith devils and dead friends, he reaches into me andpulls out a flower- he puts it behind myear, and he loves while he burns.iii.i take his ashes andi put them on thepetals (he said not to forgetthe beauty indeath, and i'm tryingwith all the heart inside me).
.she said to lookat the sky whenever i missed her-"i'll be the closeststar". but she never said what todo when it'scloudy.
cherry blossoms.one after theother, we swallowedsong birdsuntil we bled ourselvesdry.bones andall- their feathers stuckin my stomach. you, darling,you bloomed under my palm like amountain, like thesunrise. i watchedas you traced two goldenwings with yourtongue, like some kind ofdusk and dawn godhybrid. after all thatskin and dust and love was gone, you turned to meand almost smiled before you went away. i am still tryingto understand how tomiss you.
pine cone heart. it is 9:36 on a Tuesday night. i don't know if it's still snowing, but i do know it's cold and my palms are covered in a thin layer of sweat. slowly, it eats away at my epidermis like a parasite. soon i will be nothing more than skeletal muscle and a decaying pericardium. i think this is beginning to happen already, this disintegration. it began five minutes and thirty seven seconds ago when i realized two things: you will never love me. i will love you all the same. our timelines were never meant to connect, not really. there was just that second-long contact, a chance, a lifetime in my eyes. i keep replaying that moment again and again. i don't remember what you were wearing, how your hair looked, the way your smile looked. no; all i can recall is how your skin felt on your forearm, the sound of a marker against flesh. i realize that that is all we will be: a fleeting smile. a promise to keep in
4/8i place a shellon your knee- it'sa silent plea for you to ask mewhy i'm looking at you likethat,and i would have told youthat it's becausei love you.i would have told youhow i lovethe way your hair curlsupward, like one massive cowlick and how i love your onedimple, the slope ofyour nose and the space where your collarbones meet. but you smiled andslid it into yourpocket, which is okaytoo.
as love for summer fades.late morning-early December. there's the tease of snow in the clouds,in the air, and the treeshave finally lost theirlast leaf. the sunlight is damp.it hardlyalters the roomas it graces my skin,and for oncei don't wake up right away.instead i laybetween my memory bittensheets, and i thinkabout all the times he saidthat he hated winter.i don't rememberwhen i began to love it,and i don't care.it's beautiful.nothing can shatter that.
all we ever do is decayI.nobody falls in love with saturn,but everyone, her rings.II.this disjointed skull is a smirkingmirror bending back reflections.this disjointed skull is a sleep-smoker.III.you were a utopian seven lives ago,but nobody lives in this body anymore.
.all we are is cheapmetaphorsgoldfish drowning inthe ocean, birds that forget how toflap their wings, mid-flight
you've been dead for a year, my deari met you on december 21st,the longest night of the year.you had solstice eyes: cold, dark, alluring.i knew you were not meant to last,powerful as a gale but fragile asthe tulip stems you snapped,a sickening cycle of you,an overwhelming tidal wave.they say two wrongs will never make a right,but i made so many bad choices thati wound up back where I began.it was too easy to love you,but getting you to love me back was impossible.i clawed at your chest until I struck blood,until my nails split into shards.you were born a phantom,and i, your corpse.holding onto you felt like drowning in quicksand;i fought but always sank into your arms.i breathed in dirt, breathed in dust, andfound my organs choked with you,smothered by your existence.you sucked out my breathevery time i kissed you.i died every day with your handknotted in my hair.You left on june 21st,the longest day of the year.i bit down sorrow and deconstructedthe labyrinth within me,the one you hadn't th
because i'm like a relapse (of you or youth)baby blues cannot cure suicide agendas.all these poets do is wither, wither,waste - decomposing bones justenough to trade them in forwords & kill themcell bycell &conversations bloom between my tongue &teeth or two choice vertebrae; thoughtsburst like blood vessels,like self disgust(i am more catatonicthan i am catastrophic).
confess, like there's blood pouring out your mouthfear is licking at thiscobwebbed mind & ifeel cinematic; like asteam-powered poet,i'll write myself into amisanthropic migraine& outline cinder bonesto match - ingenue,you are an esoteric'snightscape & i, yourmorning's fever burns.
the way you speak through incisionsoh, disaster dweller, you werebone-ache blue & cyanotic.we wore lonely luminescence'round the wrists that heldour god-hands, but you werelivid skin & anesthetic to thetouch. a river of pitted veins,you said: we'll all grow weary ofthe rising of our ribs someday.
fall in love with (splitting hairline fractures)we swallow blues insteadof talking them out. oh,kids like us are specters,spectacles: boys countingrib(cage)s & (de)composing don't you hate (this body) is a vesselwe're deities or tomb-raiders; noin-betweens for writers these days
five hour energyi supposelast week was only an aftershockof the earthquake you were before.this place used to vibratewith metal strings and melodic,off-key shouting-testimonies to life,emitting coffee-scented moodsand the burn of it too.i had memorized thesounds of silence,a cacophonyso despisedi couldn't help but relish it.no longer had i knownthe sounds of folkand scent of mocha-you became nothing morethan an echo of the laughteri so desperately needed to hear again.then the echoes got louder,bouncing ferociously off the wallsto be made manifestand dissipate.i walked into your roomexpecting exactly what i found-an unmade bed,bare desktops,and an empty beer(the one that you insisted you neededjust days ago).i pressed my noseinto the pillowhoping desperately,begging silentlyfor incense and cologne and starbucksto penetrate my mindand thinking fervently"you bastard,i already knowwhat a clean sheet smells like."it's amazinghow strong an aftershock can be,but st
( 4/04/2014 )Everything here is so fuckingloud and this dragon eyed girldoesn’t feel like filteringanymore.She doesn’t want to answerthe phone today, either, so-she stuffs her ears withsilence, andher mouth with newnamesas she kissesswollen knees.She’s ponderingsocks now toowiththeir mixed &matched indecency.Real ladies wouldn’tdare step outsidewearing one pink& one green sock,only,but she’s no lady.-A red lipped hermitholding a knife to herown throat, screaming-writewritewritewriteidareyou!maybe,who embracesthe sun andthe rain on her facefor the first timein weeks.Oh poets with yourpretty words andold souls,this is what truewriters blocklooks like.
1:33 amto the angry young man withhungry ocean eyes: i do not wish to knowwhat crawled insideyour ribs todie; i just wish you wouldlet it leave.